


The Monster Within

by Wottles



Series: The Unsung Heroes [1]
Category: Storm Hawks (Cartoon)
Genre: Character Death, Coming of Age, Corruption, F/M, Growing Up, Murder, Origin Story, Original Character Death(s), Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-21 07:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20689787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wottles/pseuds/Wottles
Summary: An origin story. Ace, a young Storm Hawk recruit, navigates the void between good and evil. A path of self-discovery takes him on a journey to discover just what the power of the title of Storm Hawk holds, and how quickly it can go to your head.





	1. Everyday Hero

_Ace_

There’s a special place in hell for carnies—you know, the ever-odd looking individuals that operate barely-standing roller coasters and hand out hot cocoa and corn dogs. There’s a stench to them; indescribable is a great word for it. Not just an odor, but an air that follows them. Could you find them in an alley handing off Snuff for a handful of coins? Probably. I could just as easily find one in a portable restroom banging any number of teenagers. Carnies are a breed all their own.

They do, however, add a certain layer of excitement to Terra Neon. Is it the looming fear of death? Yeah. That’s probably exactly it.

Neon maintains their title as an overwhelming environment boasting excitement, entertainment, and loose children without leashes. Roller coasters roar in the distance as hordes of park-goers line up against the boardwalk rails for a chance to see the fireworks when night rolls in. As theme parks go, Neon takes the cake; not just because it’s the only one we have, either.

Roaming the park without a map is a daunting task, but one I paid no mind to. Neon became a place of escape, one where Striker could not easily find me. No radios, no Messenger crystals, no Sky Knight nonsense. Here, I could be human; if only for a moment.

At Neon from dawn until dusk, I crawl through the crowds to escape. A perfect place to rest lie just beyond their reach, where those had not yet set up camp for the evening show. With the sun gone for the day, many were taking their leave. Neon is known for chilling temperatures in the evening hours. I have no interest in pressing shoulder-to-shoulder against the clamoring crowd. A break against a nearby grimy bench is exactly what I need.

I take a seat, enjoying the view of city lights against the horizon. A sunset blazes before me in a glory of red, pink, and orange. With a cool breeze against my face, silence in the air, and nothing planned for the rest of the night, I find solace in the bench—until security decides I’m a nuisance after-hours. Though I am fresh out of the Academy, my life has already grown more hectic than I anticipated.

I close my eyes and sigh, reminiscing my days at the school. Striker picked me, of all people, to apprentice under him and the great Storm Hawks name. According to my instructors, the squadron maintained one of the highest rank for the past decade. Being accepted into their draft was nearly unheard of. I beat out a senior—Jared, I believe; no more than a few years my junior. If my research is correct, he’d spent the better part of three years applying for a position that simply landed in my lap. I hadn’t signed a single application—what freshman would?

Now, six months after graduation, my newfound title is hitting me head-on. From cleaning duties to deliveries, and even front of the line combat—he’s really putting me to the test. What I don’t have, however, is time for myself. I won’t be eating, sleeping, or breathing without a reprieve from my post. Striker holds a strict regime aboard the Condor, and being new affords no exceptions. Though I am not allowed a break, taking one is another story. The midnight air on Neon is a welcome gift. Striker would not be happy with my leaving, but he _must_ understand. Going from textbook theory to live-in-action practice nearly overnight is no easy ride, and it’s an understatement to say I’m exhausted.

A change in the air has me on alert. Footsteps tapped along the boardwalk before the bench planks shift beneath me. My eyes open, darting to my right. A young woman has taken it upon herself to sit beside me, all while the handful of surrounding benches remain empty. I grew fearful—I should have heard her _much_ sooner… “Who the hell are you?” I growl, my eyes narrow in her presence.

Her eyes are low in the dim light; she holds her arms close to her chest, wavering only to brush her face. “Don’t talk to me,” she says, her words sharp.

I can’t help but laugh—who is _she_, an unwelcome visitor, to speak that way? “I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood.” My leg rolls from my knee; it hits the boardwalk with a resounding _thud._ “I thought you sat next to me for a reason—would you prefer to go—I don’t know—_anywhere _else?”

“Just… Just leave me alone, will you?” Her voice cracks under the weight of her troubles. A flicker of the nearby lamppost lends a glimpse to the tears rolling down her cheeks.

_Here we go…_ The weight of my Storm Hawk title tugs at me. I chose the life of a knight in shining armor, but it’s a rare day in the Wastelands that I choose to help without a weapon in my hands and a fire in my chest. “Mind telling me why you’re crying?” It’s not the warmest of responses, but I feel obligated. _On my day off, no less…_

She’s on her feet in the blink of an eye. Her carefully-folded arms snap to her sides. “It’s none of your business!” she shouts.

“Listen, princess…” There’s a laugh bubbling from somewhere—I can’t place it. “Out of the dozens of benches around this park, you choose the literal _one_ that I’m sitting on. If you wanted peace, this isn’t the place.”

Her eyes burn through the tears, as if ripping through the depths of my soul. They flick from left to right, searching for an unknown destination. Her words are harsh: “Call me princess… _one more time…_”

“Oh, okay! Sure!” There’s that laugh again—am I surprised by her behavior? “Hurt me when I’m only trying to help…” Water drips from the sleeve of my jacket, pooling on my jeans. “You walk all the way over here, deliberately sit next to me, and you’re crying. It’s _kind of_ my job to help. Although I’d rather not, it doesn’t look like I have a choice.”

She nods, a forced grin crawling along her cheeks. “Sure, sure… Your _‘job.’_ Where’s your badge? Don’t they give those out to nice guys?”

_Feisty!_ “Can we try this again?” I shift against the bench and straighten my spine. I look to her with wide eyes, but she’s not impressed. “Oh, Gods, are you okay? You’re crying! Do you need help? What can I do?”

“Ha. Funny. What are you, hm? Who do you think you are?”

“Apparently bird shit, from the sound of it.” I wipe the water from my pants and replace my leg against my knee. If she doesn’t want help, I’m not gonna go out of my way to deliver.

As if deliberating, there’s a moment of silence. She shifts from left to right, and her arms return to her chest. Eventually, the girl sits against the bench, encroaching yet again on my bubble of space. She sighs, her head tilted toward the sky. “You ever wonder how… you could just _end up_ in a part of your life. Like… how did I even get here?”

“Oh, here we go…” An audible groan escapes me, and I don’t even attempt to stop it. “Listen, pr—” It’s nearly a cough; I’m surprised my filter chooses now, of all times, to kick in. “Look. If you actually want some help, now’s the time to ask for it. I am absolutely_ not_ interested in making conversation.” My shoulders roll with my last words. I draw a metaphorical line in the air. “Your boyfriend dump you? Don’t care. I mean, I _really_ don’t care.”

“Y-you shouldn’t have to deal with this…” It’s as if no truer words were ever spoken.

I lift my arm from the bench and rest a hand on her thigh. My eyes, nearly rolling, find their way to her. “You’re not making it easy.”

She shifts away from me as her face twists in disgust. “Easy? Don’t touch me!”

“If that isn’t the first time I’ve heard that…” Another groan and I, once again, step out of my comfort zone. My arm returns to its lax position against the back of the bench. “Neon isn’t exactly a place you’d like to be caught in after dark. You should go home. Like… now; that’d be great.”

“Don’t you think I’d go home if I could?” She’s quiet, her words shaking with each tear that falls. Pitiful is not a good look on her.

I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to ask. “…You’re stuck here…” Not entirely a question, and I’m shocked by the sudden generosity.

She curls into a ball on the bench. The small woman seemingly shrinks into nothing, withering away beneath her tears. “My… my ride home…”

“You can’t fly?” It’s almost a rite of passage. A pilot’s license is a one-way ticket to freedom. Without it, you’re grounded. Someone of her age should not only have that license, but at least a year’s experience under her belt.

“Can and should are two very different things…” A loose thread finds its way between her twisting fingers.

My teeth are grinding. I know what I have to do, but what I would like greatly differs. Couldn’t she just… leave? I’m not here for her pleasure. The image of a checklist comes to mind, and she’s nowhere on it. Another sigh—can I just stop breathing? “You’re stuck here, right? I…” And another. I rise to my feet and toy with the idea. My hands fall to my sides. I rub my neck and examine the shell of a girl before me under the dim light. “I can fly you home. I don’t have to be anywhere until later.”

A hand appears and she brushes her nose, shifting away from me. “No.” It’s an automatic refusal. _REALLY?_ “Just leave me here, okay? I-I… I deserve this for whatever stupid shit I’ve done.” Her feet fall to the floor, her hands pool in her lap. “I’ll get home eventually.”

There’s a moment—I refer back to my years of training. Protect. Serve. Comfort. Care. That moment, however, is fleeting. Instincts kick in. A hand shoots for her arm and she’s ripped from the bench. Her shoulder recoils and she tries to get away, but she’s trapped within my grasp. “I’m _trying_ to be nice.”

She throws her head behind her, laughing to the stars. "So... what? If I say no, you'll be mean, yeah?" Finally, she frees herself, batting away the wound. “You have no right to tell me what I _need_ to do! I’m old enough to think for myself.”

Among the list of reasons why she continues to upset me, negotiating through logic appears to be my last resort. “Neon: Drug Capitol of Atmos. If you stay, you’ll become some pedophile’s wet dream. A midnight snack. If you manage to stave of hypothermia, they’ll get you before long.” I look toward her knowingly. “I’m going to offer one last time: if you would like me to take you home, we need to leave _now._ Last chance.” I try to force a grin; there’s a convoluted result staring back at her.

Finally, it appears I’ve won her over. “Okay, Prince Charming. Fine. Take me home.”

I straighten my shirt and correct my grin—a job well done. My instructors would be proud. Who would’ve thought those negotiation classes would come in handy? Not me, no. Not me…

She pipes up, her broken voice finding strength. “Just don’t complain when I tell you I live on Mesa…”

The flight to Mesa is turbulent, dangerous, and largely done blind. It is _not_ a midnight flight I wish on my worst enemy. “Fucking Mesa. How’d I get so lucky?”

“Still feel like flying me home, _princess?_”

There’s a decisive nod as I eat my words. I grasp her hand and tug her along. “Yep. Abso-fucking-lutely. I’m taking you home.”

For now, she smiles. A wicked grin, at that.

I drag her along the boardwalk and wave an imaginary goodbye to my once uneventful day. I was taught to show no mercy to those who defied the Atmos’ interests, and to lend a hand to all those in need. I was drilled into a righteous mindset, one that would not afford the luxury of turning a blind eye. Try as I might, there’s no kidding myself; this was going to happen whether I liked it or not.

The docks aren’t far, and many of the parked vessels have gone home for the evening. A lone Skimmer sits in the distance, calling my name. “Over there,” I tell her, motioning to the lone bike. “I’m, uh... not exactly prepared for passengers.” I step toward it with purpose, pull a key ring from my jacket and jam it into the ignition. The Hawk insignia glistens with dew under the lamps. Is _this_ what I want out of life? I’m no knight in shining armor… If this is any indication of the years to come, I may need to have a chat with Striker.

She speaks, her words no louder than a whisper. “My name is Lora…”

I lift my gaze from the ignition and capture her face in the light. The once-distraught face finally holds a vague smile. Those icy-blue eyes, though, are still red with grief. I smile in return. So innocent. “Ace.”

“You’re a weird one, you know that?”

“Eventually I’ll turn out just as brainwashed as the rest of them. Just wait… Won’t be long…” Though it struggles, the engine finally roars to life. The colder it gets, the harder the struggle to maintain idle. The bike is covered in gear—was I expecting passengers? No—and things that must be reorganized and removed before she can come along. I untie the cargo net, remove the gear, and stuff it into the under-seat compartment. There’s something satisfying about the way it clicks shut once the damn thing locks against the hinges.

Once I’m satisfied she’ll have enough room, I step to my right and mount up, patting the small section behind me.

A yawn escapes her as she waddles over. “Thank you… Ace…”

Is there a proper response to this? “Yeah, I guess. Just get on—I’m not dressed for the cold, and neither are you.”

It’s obvious a Skimmer is foreign to her—or a Flyer of any type, for that matter. She struggles with the idea, but soon manages to clamor on behind me. Her arms latch on and her feet find the right pegs, but there’s a chill as her wrists press into my chest. “Wait,” I call, shifting her off. “You… need this more than I do…” She leans away as I tug at my sleeves. My jacket slips from my shoulders and into her lap. “Say no and we’re gonna have a problem.”

“I’m not cold,” she insists.

“You will be. Now’s not the time for modesty.” I twist the throttle and prepare to leave. “Take it, and maybe you’ll still have your skin attached by the time we land.”

I’m met with silence, but a shift in weight tells me she’s listened. I’m happy it won’t be yet another argument. “God… This thing is huge…”

There’s a joke in there somewhere, but this whole incident has me drained and uninterested. “I’m sorry; I’m not exactly a stick.” I can already feel the bite in the air under my long sleeves. It’s not going to be a fun ride, but at least it won’t end at the hospital.

Lora pulls the jacket around her chest and leans in. Finally, we can take our leave.

Though the skies above Neon are clear, the flight to Mesa is riddled with sandstorms, no-visibility, and a chill like no other. If we manage to miss a snowfall, I’ll be shocked. A roar escapes through the exhaust as I peel out of the lot and onto the docks. Into the skies, I’m off and away toward Mesa. If I make a quick trip of it, I’ll be back on the Condor before sunrise…


	2. Bearer of Burden

_Ace_

Mesa is a trek. To say I would be putting some miles on my Skimmer would be an understatement. From Neon back to the Condor, alone, would be a two hour flight. Well beyond the Condor sat Mesa, our far-off destination. I could hope for the flight to pass quickly, but I’d only be kidding myself. Lora tucked herself neatly behind me; at least she won’t have to deal with rain pelting her in the face.

Frigid temperatures of the night sky bite at my skin as penetrating doubt fills my mind. The thin shirt scarcely fends off the cold; my fingertips spark, desperately calling out for a response. Flying swiftly through the night would be my only chance. The trip to Mesa would put me farther from the Condor than I ever intended. Though, the closer we get to our destination, the higher the temperatures rise. Eventually, nearly four hours in, I finally regain feeling in my fingertips. Right on time, too—operating a clutch lever is a necessary part of landing without killing the both of us.

Waves of exhaustion lap at my eyelids, but I know I must press on or find my Skimmer flattened on the pathway beneath us. Tires hit the ground with a thud and rumble onward along a thin stretch of road. Cobblestone glisten in the moonlight, lighting a clear path to her destination. Brass windowpanes and metal doorways sparkle as they pass us by. Mist hangs in the air as the midnight fog rolls in, calling a far-off end to the sweet and luxurious summer nights the Mesa residents pined for. My mind wanders back to Striker, hoping he won’t be distraught over my sudden disappearance. I’ll be home soon. Just a little detour…

I stand the bike at an angle and lower the kickstand. The engine slowly sputters to a halt and I exhale for the first time in what feels like an hour. I flex my wrists and roll my shoulders; it’s been a very long time since I’ve taken a four-hour ride, and much longer since in the dead of night. The girl lay still against me, her arms limply curled around my waist. Her quiet snore rumbles against my spine with each inhale, and her fingers twitch in her trance. Although I don’t blame her, I soon wish she would _just let go_. I’m lost on a foreign Terra and getting her, and myself, home is my top priority.

I whisper to her, shaking her from her fantasies. “Wake up. I have no idea where we are.”

Stirring with a groan, her eyes flutter open. They struggle to focus in the pale light. For a moment, she lay against me, struggling to keep her eyes from closing. In an instant, her arms retract and she sits upright, scanning the road ahead. “Home…,” she breathes, flopping her legs off the bike.

I pull my keys from the ignition and allow myself a breath. My legs are numb and my jeans are cold and damp. Though shaky, I manage to unglue myself from the seat and stand—wobbling—beside her. A good upward stretch awakens my muscles and I’m upright before long. “Can’t be far, yeah? We’ve been flying a while.”

She shakes her head with a yawn. Her weary eyes take to the nearby houses, but she seems lost. I hope I haven’t miscalculated. Her hands linger in the warmth of my jacket pockets for a moment, but make a quick escape to fix her hair. I lose myself in the silence, but awaken as she leans against me. Another yawn overwhelms her.

They don’t prepare you for this in the Academy. This is… _isn’t_ right. I’m frozen where I stand, unable and unwilling to reciprocate. How could I react, I wonder, when a stranger steps into my little world? Not even my mother was generous enough to offer her hand in my formative years. Physical contact is simply off the table… and yet I remain there with her pressed into my arm. In a moment of panic, I take her arm in mine.

“I-I’m sorry…,” Lora apologizes. Her eyes are as lost as they were on Neon—blank, yet searching. She steps away, each footing slower than the last. Her heels spin and she faces me, words lingering on her tongue. And she reaches for me, her arms around mine. “Thanks.”

More of _this. _It needs to stop. As if by habit alone, my arms unleash from her grasp and wrap over her shoulders. She’s short—her head doesn’t even reach my chin. I look longingly toward the houses ahead, hoping for a large, blinking sign that says, “LORA’S HOUSE.” No dice.

And somehow, words are found. It’s not the response I’m hoping for. "It… it really was nothing. You’ve already thanked me."

“Ace,” she breathes, pushing back, “—it's midnight. You were flying for four hours, at least! You didn't have to do that… I mean, I yelled at you. I insulted you!”

There’s guilt in her words; I could easily argue that she had me by the balls over this whole scenario. “I've been through worse…,” I laugh. It’s not right of me to bring up virtue and vow—truly, I had no other choice. This is what I was trained to do. In explaining, however, it would make me sound obligated. My intent definitely isn’t to make her feel _worse_. I want her out of my hair, and garnering pity would hinder that. For once, though… I feel proud.

She stands silent before me, her palm pressed to her nose. The chill had quite an effect, one still withstanding. Exhaustion is written all over her face; I know she needs rest. Hell, I need to get back to the Condor before the team wakes up, or worse, Striker. “You need sleep,” I confer. “And I need to get back before Striker gets worried.”

“Striker?” She toys with the word; no bells have been rung. Let me be clear—there are very few people in Atmos who don’t immediately know him by name, alone. Fewer people, still, that have not seen his face. There’s a sigh from her direction, and it’s obvious she’s lost the fight for any recall. “Promise me something?”

“Oh, great…”

Her lips form a line, but she presses onward. “I need to make this up to you… eventually. It’ll bug me if I don’t.” While I don’t believe her, she insists. “You have to promise me that you’ll come back.”

Hesitant and unsure, I simply nod. A promise, however, is a bond, and I fear my agreement would come back to haunt me later. “You… You need sleep,” I repeat myself.

She laughs at me, and the sparkle in her eye returns. “Uncomfortable, eh? All right, all right… I’ll let you off the hook for now.” She stands in silence again, smiling softly in my direction. She lifts onto her toes and kisses my cheek—_Is this a hero’s payment? _“Thanks, Ace…”

“Can we stop with the gratitude?” I beg, shifting from her. “Getting real tired of this guilt parade happening over here.” With a wave of my hand, I motion in her direction.

We soon approach a beaten and worn door, but we are far from alone. Lora jumps from her skin and my jacket rolls from her shoulder. As it hits the ground, I kneel to retrieve it. A man stands in the doorway, a dimly-lit lantern swinging from his calloused hand. His right hand curls tightly around a Blaster, his sights trained on me with tired, angry eyes. He scans the streets for others, any possible signs of danger. His eyes rest on me once more, the only clear and present threat, as my hand gently lingers against Lora’s arm. His fingers grow tense on the trigger and his aim narrows.

“D-Dad!” Lora cries, scrambling for the gun. “What are you doing up?!”

“Step back, son,” he warns me, his arm quivering in the air.

Great. Another unwarranted guest in this evening of paradise. I find myself appalled; another show of behavior generally not performed in the presence of a Sky Knight. _Is this… This can’t be normal_. “You do realize who you’re aiming at… right?”

His eyes never avert from mine; his aim remains steady. “Sir,” he addresses me. He’s aware. He’s plenty aware. Those are the eyes of a man with a grudge.

The fright in her chest suddenly escapes, and Lora scrambles for the gun once more. “Dad, put that thing away. Please! He’s just a friend!” It’s no hope—try as she might, the man simply shoves her aside and into the house. Her pleas continue. “Dad! Calleigh ditched me on Neon… He flew me home! That’s it!”

“Go inside, Lora. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

With a grunt, she turns to face me from beyond his broad shoulders. Her blue eyes grow red with worry and tears bubble to the surface. She asks a silent question—_Who…?—_but her immediate concern for the man with a gun to his head remains. “I’m not going _anywhere_ until you put that Blaster away! Now!”

I’m unmoved. While this may be my first encounter with an upset citizen, it’s far from the first gun pointed at my face. A silent confrontation thickens in the air, and I slowly move my hand to my back, my fingers curling around the metal blade hitched behind me. I speak with careful precision, and my works are dry. “I suggest you put your weapon down. I mean neither of you any harm.”

He shifts remnants of tobacco in his lip and snarls, “I suggest you get the hell off my property, Sky Knight. Immediately.”

Weapon drawn, I stand my ground. Snapping like wildfire, electricity flows from the curvature of my blade toward the man before me. The man knows I am a Knight—I hoped my words held as much weight. “As a Knight of the Storm Hawks, I order you to lower your weapon and stand down or I will be forced to arrest you for attempted murder of an appointed peace officer and high treason under the Code of the Atmos Council. I will _not_, otherwise, hesitate to kill you should you refuse.” Words I hoped to never use yet recite them as fluently as I was taught.

As if this night could get any worse. Lora is left speechless, my words swirling in her mind. Her eyes are wide as she watches me—what must it feel like to see a man with an intimidating weapon threaten your father? That’s a question I’ll never have to answer for myself; I’m unsure if I should be thankful. Though her father refuses to back down, her concern soon turns to anger and frustration. With a swift palm to the shoulder, she shoves her father into the doorway and stomps into the house. “Way to go, asshole. You just pissed off the top Squadron!”

Those words would be her last for the evening. “Goodnight!” I call through the house. A door slams in the distance, and her father follows suit. Lucky me—I get the pleasure of having a gun pointed to my head, yet apparently unworthy of a proper goodbye.

I sheathe my weapon and, along the cobblestone, make the lonesome walk back to my bike. _Not today, Ace… Not… today…_

**+**•**+**•**+**•**+**

Rain strikes the hull like midnight gunfire, waking the crew from their slumber. Those aboard the flying vessel know the weather above Gale grows all the more frightening after sundown. With the long flight ahead of us, we know what little sleep would come could be vital for survival. It has been two months since my little exhibition to Mesa. No matter how hard I’ve tried, nothing seems to keep my mind off that girl. She snagged a thread on me, and no matter how far she runs, I simply unravel, unable to keep composure. My team has started to notice something’s amiss, and all I can do is hope they aren’t certain why.

Tired eyes gather at the helm of the ship, peering through the window and beyond the clouds. Just as Striker had gone to rest, bowed heads perk up, calling for chatter and wandering eyes. Maara, the pilot of our magnificent machine, found time through a lull in the storm to close his eyes and tune out.

I remain silent in my chair, awaiting the next bump in the road, the next obstacle, whatever seems to find pleasure in my misery. Oh, how I want the flight to come to an end—I want nothing more than a warm bath and clean sheets followed by copious amounts of sleep, something not often found aboard the Condor. And yet, I find myself stuck here, working delivery after delivery, and praying to return home safe in the coming months.

Maara, softened by years behind the wheel, sits idly by as the ship hangs in the skies. He leans over toward me, watching curiously. His dark hair sways before his tired eyes that beg for a few more hours of rest. “What’s bugging you, Ace?” he questions. A hand flicks his hair into its rightful place. “And don’t give me any of that _mind your own_ bullshit, yeah? Something’s up. Been _up_ for a while.”

My eyes drag in the direction of the demanding pilot. He’s not known to often overstep his bounds, but it’s uncomfortable once he does. “What makes you think this is any of your business?”

“Oh, for Gods sake. You think I give a damn about how you really feel? You’re on _my _ship—as your pilot, I demand to know what the hell is wrong with you.” Maara takes a stand and leans forward in his chair, sitting to face me directly. “If it makes you feel better, it’ll probably be more of an inconvenience for me to listen to you than it will be for you to tell me.”

My hands are in knots—I watch him closely. “I really don’t think it’s any of your business, Maara.”

He’s grinning from ear to ear as he laughs at me. “So… It’s about a girl, isn’t it? _Now_ I’m slightly interested. Where’s she from?” I can just _hear_ the questions as they flood in.

It feels like an eternity as I mull over my thoughts. Is it worth dealing with the fall out of staying tight lipped? “…Mesa.” I’m somehow shocked that the truth slips out.

And it appears he is, as well. Maara watches for a hint—a sign of deceit—but he’s met with stony resilience. “Oh, well… You’re serious?” There’s affirmation in my silence. “Are you sure she’s not a Talon?”

“A Talon!” I exhale. This man, a man who has served as the Storm Hawks helmsman since the squadron’s formation, is unfortunately known for his continued fear of Talons, a breed that died out nearly six years ago. “You’re still fucking crazy, dude. No.”

There’s relief in his eyes, but his lingering gaze presses for more information.

I shake my head at him. “I offered to fly her home a while back. I guess her friends ditched her on Neon, or something… She had me fly all the way to Mesa. Let’s just say her father wasn’t too happy to see me.” I continue on, but left many of the details to mystery. “Striker’s gonna kill me.”

Maara smiles, his lips curling against his teeth. “Why do I get the feeling you’re still caught up on her after all that?” He reaches for his radio and rolls down the volume.

Frustrated, my palms strike my legs. “Apparently! She’s… interesting.” I find myself mumbling, eyes lingering at his feet.

He swings in his chair and glances at the controls. “You know, Ace…,” he begins, quick hands flicking switches and depressing buttons, “we’re not a prideful topic in Mesa… And with your lifestyle, you can’t exactly afford a casual affair.” He turns to face me as he sets his radio on a nearby shelf. “You have responsibilities as a Knight and expectations from the Council. If you intend to pursue this life… I mean, you can’t really get into a relationship. You’re a recruit. You wear our insignia, but you’re not a fully-fledged Knight just yet. A relationship will easily derail your career. Especially with a Talon.”

“She’s not a Talon!” I reiterate. “She can’t be…” I slump back in my chair and my eyes wander to the ceiling. “It’s not like I chose for this whole thing to happen. Would it really be any different with another squadron? No. It wouldn’t.”

His hands reach for the controls and draw his mind elsewhere, redirecting the vessel to its predisposed flight path. Maara appears to understand my position. “Then I guess we won’t talk about it anymore.” A wink is shot in my direction. “I suggest you get some rest, Ace. I’m sure your girl will be more than pleased to see you in the morning.”


	3. Code of Honor

_Ace_

It’s always a fight for space in the fridge. If you want veggies, they get stolen. Pop? Stolen. If you want Kale’s cooking, though, you’re in luck—no one eats his crap. I could spend hours pacing between the helm and the fridge and, still, there will be less and less in there each time. The main culprit is an elusive target, but it has been unanimously decided.

I rummage through the drawers and hastily grip onto the last of the pop. “Hey Joe?!” I call, a scream heard along the metal corridor. “Do we have any carrots left?”

The blond pokes his head through a hole in the floor as he clings to a ladder. “Maybe your imaginary girlfriend ate the rest, aye?” He’s laughing at me. He releases the ladder and clamors into the kitchen. Sticky fingers nab the pop from my hand and he waltzes away with a skip in his step.

I slam the door and stomp after him. “Imaginary? Girlfriend?” Luckily, there’s a lone apple in the bowl on the communal table. I pluck it out and bite down. Not entirely fresh, but better than nothing. During long stretches of travel, our supplies dwindle to nothing. Striker and Kale will bring crates from our last stop down from the hold up to the galley, but today they’ve come up empty. There have been talks of a stop, and I agree—it’s time.

I wanted to have a chat—just a little one—with Maara about the gossip. I knew better than to share my woes with him, and word quickly got out. It hadn’t reached Striker until days later, but with Joe running his mouth, a few days is quite a shock. Maara wouldn’t change his ways, and a little chat would be fruitless. I knew eventually I would have to fess up about the incident with a Mesan citizen, less a riot break out and my name be mentioned. If I was transparent with him, we could handle it before anything came of it. Unfortunately, that meant talking about Lora to a man that lived under a strict code. The mere possibility that I had a budding relationship could put my position in jeopardy. I hadn’t quite decided if I was comfortable with that risk.

Joe spun on his heels, facing me in his escape. “Touchy, touchy! Fine; she’s not your girlfriend. All I’m saying is I’ve never seen her. For all I know, she doesn’t exist! Or… she’s some old, ugly hag…”

The lone bite out of my apple would be the last—I chuck it in his direction. The sharpshooter quickly ducks, his arms shielding his face. “Funny, that’s the same thing your mom said.”

“Oooh!” he mocks me, hands waving in the air. “We’ve got a comedian over here!”

I’ve quickly become _one of them_. My age has yet to be a barrier in their day-to-day exploits. A rookie—fresh out of the Academy at the bright young age of seventeen. Striker had his sights set on me long before a draft could be in the cards. The team warmed up to me immediately—I cannot say it has been mutual. I am thankful, however, that no topic is off-limits. My jokes were accepted, and my words had merit. What I say and my opinion held weight against the best of them.

Joe hummed at me as he slowed in his tracks. We’ve reached the helm, and Striker is within throwing distance. Joe never seemed to mind. “I’ve got it!” he cheers, looking to Striker for reinforcement. “You’re embarrassed because you haven’t scored yet!”

Where’s that apple when you need it… “God, you’re freaking relentless.” I step past Maara; he’s lazily overseeing the controls.

“Is she _that_ ugly? Or are you?”

There’s a beautiful, serene place somewhere deep within the depths of my soul. Today, however, that place will not be found. “That’s it!” I call out, a foot leading me quickly toward him. “Come here, you bastard!”

Striker has a hand out for my collar before two inches pass my feet. “All right, you two. Break it up.” He’s prying me away; Joe looks on with a grin as wide as his blue eyes.

He releases me and I straighten my uniform. Profanities are muttered, insults are whispered. “One day,” I warn him.

Joe picks the rolling apple off the floor and investigates the bite from the side. With a simple shrug, he dives in. Half the apple vanishes in one chomp.

“I want my apple back.” Another warning.

Another bite. Nearly to the core, now. “Sorry, kid! It’s mine now.” A laugh, a bite, and the apple is toast. He carelessly tosses it aside, where it hits Kale on his back. He lurches upward and smacks his head on the undercarriage of one of our many vehicles.

Striker is a resilient and patient leader—there are very few days aboard the Condor without an outburst of some kind. Much like how the food in the fridge grows legs, Joe stands behind many of them. “Your big mouth is going to be the death of you,” he calls over his shoulder. “And you!” His eyes are trained on me, and the map coiling in his hands loses importance. “Get in line, kid. This kind of thing can get you killed. One more fight and I’m sending you back to the Academy for a week of drills.”

Unfortunately, he has the power to make good on that threat. “You act like I just got here…”

“Start acting like you belong here and I won’t have to.” His words are sharp, but I concede. He makes a valid point—presence can be everything, even behind closed doors. A fully-functioning team is allowed their moments, but if each member cannot act cooperatively, it will fail. One weak link is all it takes; I’m not about to hold that title.

Maara, Joe’s next victim, takes punches like a champ. He’s an easy target for Joe, as he neither fights back nor acknowledges the antics. An easy target, but a boring one. Joe’s fervor fizzles out and he’s back to wandering the ship.

Striker holds a close eye on me as he files his flight maps beside the flight controls. “This isn’t like you,” he speaks quietly. Maara’s ears immediately deafen.

I look away from the shame written on his face. It’s too early in the morning for this kind of crap. Distant Terras pass by the windows, shrouded in cloud cover. “How’s your boy doing?” I question, the subject effectively changed.

“Ah, Aerrow?” There’s a light in his eyes, and it vanishes as quickly as it arrived. “You know, he just had a birthday. Turned eight last month.”

Striker is a dad. I feel the need to describe and attach other words to that title, but the sad truth of the matter is he is simply a father, and nothing more. The life of a Sky Knight, especially one in a leadership position of the highest-ranked Squadron in the skies, affords little time for family. The wife and child he leave behind are unfortunate victims of the lifestyle. If I had any indication of what kind of family life being a Knight could bring, Striker is an epic novel worth of evidence.

I check the navigation panel for the date. “We… weren’t out there last month.”

A solemn look overtakes him. He replies simply, “I know.” The man runs a hand through his red hair and musters up a quiet chuckle. “He’s got quite a bit of interest in the academy these days… Never thought he’d stay with it this long. She’s looking to enroll him next year. Quite the prodigy.”

There’s a commotion in the galley—Kale, no longer beneath the beast, has made his way out for a quick breakfast. I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of the wrench slipping from his back pocket. “You expect him to join the team, then?”

He’s quick to admit it. “It’ll be making up for the years I haven’t been home.”

“_Nothing_ can make up for that.” With experience beneath my words, it’s a stern statement.

Striker looks away. “He’ll make friends out here. He’ll learn the ropes, get good with a Skimmer, and maybe—one day—he’ll outpace his old man.” He nods to himself, an internal monologue, and seems pleased. “Good kid, that one.”

Maara tends to the chimes from the controls and slows the ship in the skies. I look to the window and—there it is. Mesa, off in the distance. Like a broken record, I argue with myself.

“What’s on your mind, boy?”

I tap the glass and look to our leader. “You, uh… You mind if I jet off for the day?” Immediately, I regret my words. His eyes nearly roll to the back of his skull. “Look, I’ve got some unfinished business. I made a promise; I was taught not to break those kinds of things…”

“Two days,” he warns me. “If you’re not back here by then, we’re leaving you behind.”

I can’t quite tell the true weight of his words. Worst case scenario, I figure air travel would put me a few hours farther out from them. By Skimmer, travel is much faster. Less comfortable, sure, but what takes the Condor days may only take me a few hours. Laws be damned.

“We will be making a pit stop on Lynn for supplies, then off to the Shanty to have the radio repaired.” It’s unlike Striker to share the path of travel when he knows I’ll be leaving. Somewhere under that red mop, I suppose he enjoys the torture it brings. Maybe now that I’m asking permission, he’s feeling generous. “Two days,” he insists again.

Excitement is brewing—something I haven’t felt in quite some time. I rest a hand on Maara’s shoulder and he shifts from me. There’s a look in his eyes—_Fuck off_, it screams. “How far out are we from Mesa?”

“An hour.” As if I carry the plague, he brushes off his shoulder and shivers. _Merb._

My feet carry me to the vehicle hold faster than I can register.

“Two days!”

I wave as the door shuts behind me. With the push of a button, the bay door rises. The runway calls my name, and my keys aren’t far behind. The engines roar, and in a blink, I leave behind the stressers of the ship and onward into the sky.

Next stop: Mesa… If only her house had a sign…

**+**•**+**•**+**•**+**

The cobblestone paths look vastly different in the daylight. The eerie glow of the moonlight is replaced by dirt and dust in the morning sun. With that said, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that I’ve made it to the right place. Can’t be far now—the houses are beginning to look the same. As I breathe a sigh of relief, the houses soon turn to shops. A market, a mechanic, a bookstore—_Where am I?_

I had it right. East docks, five minutes in, hard left at the gates. I wonder if I’ve gone too far… My odometer doesn’t lie, and the ten miles through town should have brought me right where I left her. Not a house to be seen… The streets are bustling; carts move on and off roadways and pedestrians are crossing. I get the feeling that a fast moving Skimmer isn’t a regular sight. Aside from the Hawk insignia, they seem displeased with the rumbling exhaust and the dirt I’m kicking in their faces. I take a look over my shoulder to laugh at a passing grump and—

“Watch out!” A scream. I’m not fast enough—I’m moving too quickly to regain my bearings ahead of me. A pair of wide eyes grow larger as the distance between us closes, and she’s stopped dead-center in the road, trapped by the glow of my lights. There’s an upside to training at the Academy—maneuvers for emergency landings and stops are, unsurprisingly, top-tier and taught quickly and repeatedly. There’s a wobble in the handlebars as I grip and stomp against the brakes; my tail turns and I brace for an imminent slide. I’m not prepared to dump the bike…

I open my eyes and I’m motionless—upright and motionless. A cloud of dust fills the air and the bike stalls beneath me. My arms go limp, and I collapse against the controls. I may be a licensed pilot, but… A rookie has his limitations, and a near-death experience wasn’t on my to-do list for the day.

“Hey… Are you okay?” Her voice seems so far away. I can barely collect myself; my heart is pounding in my ears. “I-I’m fine. I’m okay. Are _you_?” Her hand reaches for mine, sitting loose on the throttle, and it’s searing hot against my skin.

I look to the ground, expecting a pool of blood. I feel as if I’ve lost it all. Finally, I raise my head, still limp over the controls. The girl’s a blur, but she’s on her feet. I force a smile at her. “Did you see that?” I cheer. “Tell me you saw that!”

She nods—my vision refuses to focus. Adrenaline is a monster. A fading smile disappears from her lips as she brushes her hair from her eyes. “You look okay. You’re not bleeding…” Her hands work me over. “What are you doing here, Ace?”

I hear my name, and it sounds so foreign. The adrenaline that took me to another planet suddenly brings me back to life. I can see her. Those eyes, her messy curls… “Hey! Hey, it’s you! Ha-ha!”


	4. Counter Culture

_Ace_

To describe an out-of-body experience is… It’s something else. I’m listening to my words, I’m watching my actions. The man speaking surely isn’t myself. I step off the bike and, in a lapse of judgement, it tips onto the pavement. I stumble away from the machine and brush myself off. There’s a smile on my face like no other, and I wish nothing more than for it to disappear.

I try to quell my shaking hands and rid myself of the grin, but it’s no use. Once the adrenaline goes, I hope to be back to myself. For now, it seems I’m stuck with it. “Starting to feel like I got lost, actually.”

Lora stares at the bike on the floor and disappointment is written on her grinning face. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be heading to Ray? Where are you going, now?”

I feel a dip in the high, but my hands are still shaking. I want to reach for the bike and pick it up off the ground, but it’s best I give it a few more minutes. “Checking up on us, huh? I didn’t think you knew the definition of Sky Knight…”

Her arms fold across her chest. A passerby shouts at us; my bike his blocking his cart. “Gimme a break, will you? It’s not like we have our own squadron, here.” She looks around the street before turning to me. “Not like a lot of us appreciate what you do.”

Today, her eyes are bright. Not a single tear has stained her skin. Her loose curls are pulled atop her head, and there’s a light color brushed along her cheeks. There’s a tattered apron wrapped around her waist and she’s ready to face the day. The books scattered along the road appear important. Though my bike isn’t upright, I reach for the pages and help collect them. “I’m a bit busy today,” she admits. “I really wish you would have warned me you were coming.”

“Warn you? Why would I want your dad to know I was coming back?”

With a second book pressed to her chest, she rises to her feet. “I, uh… I’m sorry about all that.”

The remaining three books are in my shaking hands, but they begin to slip. “Is he an ex-Talon?” I already regret my words.

Lora shakes her head, but there’s sadness in her eyes. “Listen, Sky Knight…” She sighs and her eyes trail off to the shops behind her. “I really do have a lot to do today…” I follow her gaze—a bookstore. She gently pries the books from my grasp and adds it to her collection. “I don’t want you to leave, though.”

There it is—a reason to stay. I lower myself to the ground and press my back to the seat on the bike. The hours spent practicing lifts wouldn’t go to waste. It’s a struggle; the bike outweighs me three-fold. Eventually the beast is righted and I roll it to the side. “I could… I could come with, though.” Is this really what I want to pursue? “It’s not like I’m here on business.”

She nods thoughtfully and scans the street again. “I… This isn’t a place you should be hanging out in.”

“It’s not like Sky Knights are illegal, here,” I argue with her. I’m growing more frustrated than I want. Desperation isn’t a good look, nor feeling.

Striker was nice enough to let me in on the secret—it’s not just her father that doesn’t appreciate my presence. Mesa had long since been a feuding territory. Prior to the downfall of Cyclonia and, in turn, the Talons, Sky Knights effectively patrolled Mesa. When the Rex Guardians made a fatal misstep, Mesan residents looked to Cyclonia for more effective protection. Until then, Cyclonia left Mesa well enough alone. Once they let them inside, they wreaked havoc and severed any future ties with the Council and their watchdogs.

Unfortunately for the Knights and Mesa, Cyclonia stepped up their efforts. Terras they had successfully infiltrated went from allies to targets. Homes were set ablaze and bombs were dropped like confetti. Many residents of Mesa, and several other Terras, died at their hands. Sky Knights attempted to lend their aid, but in most cases, their efforts were neither quick nor enough. Mesa isn’t the only victim of Cyclonian devastation, but in the six years that have passed, their wounds have not healed. Residents here are still vocal about their mistrust of Cyclonia, and Sky Knights, as well.

I figure, though, that there’s nothing a good heart can’t solve. I’m just not the person to do it. “What if we leave—go somewhere else?”

She pushes her books in my direction; the bag on her hip sways. “I can’t, Ace.”

There’s a moment where importance overtakes logic. Somehow, whatever thread this girl has grasped onto becomes a higher priority than my potential safety. Striker would have a field day with this. I take another look at the residents around me; with my bike pushed off the roadway, I’m just like everyone else. I’m not armored, I’m not branded, and my uniform is tucked neatly away. If they don’t watch the news reels, my face is unknown. _Fuck it_.

“What’s on your list for the day?”

Lora smiles. It’s not the same pitiful smile she lent me when I dropped her off, either. “Well… I need to return these books to Ms. Jenkan, make a trip for food for the house…” She looks to her bag and shifts, but her hands are full. “There’re a few other things…”

I have to keep thinking it over. My decision has been made, but the method of hiding in plain sight doesn’t seem so easy. I peel the seat off my bike and stare at the contents, my mind racing. Suddenly, I realize there’s a large bird on the back of my jacket. Into the bike it goes. The strap tied to my arm beneath the leather sleeve goes as well.

She laughs from behind her books. “That ain’t gonna help, honey…”

I click the seat shut and watch as her smile tears her apart. She’s staring at my head, and my hand flies to my scalp. My haircut is, sadly, a dead giveaway of my time spent at the Academy. It hasn’t quite grown out to a comfortable length since graduation, and it reeks of the old days where a close shave was part of the uniform. “Okay, okay, I get it. It’s fine.” I smooth the wrinkles from my shirt and plaster on a grin. “Better? Am I good enough, yet?”

“You were always good enough,” she admits. “Just… not here.”

“Can we go?” I sputter out. “Bookstore? Yeah?”

Ms. Jenkan runs a tight ship at the bookstore. While there aren’t any customers inside as we approach, the decorative accents along the tables and walls show she does fairly well. She’s all smiles as Lora holds the stack of books in her direction. “Oh, Baby, you’re back! How did you like those books?”

Lora quickly returns the greeting. “They were great. I really appreciate you letting me borrow these.” Each book is laid out on the coin counter and, unfortunately, dust evacuates from between the pages. Ms. Jenkan doesn’t look too pleased, but Lora is quick to explain. “I, uh… I had a little accident outside. I’m so sorry. They don’t look damaged!”

Each book on the shelf around me is neatly organized and sorted not only by author, but in chronological order, as well. The prices on the walls are clear—this isn’t a library. “Baby, I can’t sell these…” She flips through the pages. While they’re not necessarily damaged, they’re not in the pristine condition they left in.

“Can I come by this weekend and help out?” Lora offers. “I’ll give you two days for the books.” It’s a bargain, I decide. There’s a panicked look in her eye as she speaks. “I’ll clean up, watch the shop. You can go to the bazaar with your husband… like you’ve been talking about!” She isn’t certain it’s going to be enough.

By the look on Ms. Jenkan’s face, it’s obvious she wants to accept, but… “I can’t Baby… You are always welcome to lend a hand, but I need to sell these books.”

I scan two of the covers—_A Pilots Guide to the Rocky Skies_, and _A Brief History: The Rise of The Atmosian Guard_. They’re non-fiction, informative and instructional books. The others on the shelves are fiction by large. Lora struggles with the thought and fishes into her bag. There isn’t enough inside to cover the payment. “I’ll have my… my dad come by next week… He can pay you for them.”

I frown. “Really?” Ms. Jenkan acknowledges me, as if I appeared out of thin air. “Can I pay for them?”

“You, honey?” She’s analyzing me, and I don’t like the way her eyes feel on my skin. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Ace,” I allow. There’s enough coin in my Skimmer for half of the books in the shop. Thankfully, aboard the Condor, there isn’t much I have to spend for. The salary a recruit provides is small, but plenty enough for a kid with no life beyond the ship’s walls.

Her brows tug together, and finally the math makes sense. “I don’t need your money, boy.” _Ace_ doesn’t appear worthy of her tanned lips. “It’s no good here.”

A nervous laugh escapes Lora’s chest. “N-now, c’mon… Play nice, please?”

I dig into my pocket and slam ten coin onto the counter—my change from the man at the docks. “Take it, yeah? Looks like you could use it…” I gather the books in exchange and pin them to my chest. “Might need to fix that sign so people can actually find your shop.”

“You’re not paying for those,” Lora pleads. It’s not about Ms. Jenkan, for her. There’s a level of pride in tying off her own loose ends.

“I’d listen to her if I were you, boy.” And yet, the coin is swept off the counter and into a small chest on a shelf. “Don’t want to overstay your welcome…”

“I, uh…” Lora peels the books from my hands and stows them in her bag. “We should go.” There’s a decisive nod, and she’s quickly pushing me out of the shop. “I’ll see you this weekend, Ms. Jenkan!”

Though the shopkeeper waves, there isn’t a smile in sight. The door chime rings behind us.

Lora steps quickly over to my bike and picks at the hinge on the seat. She places the books among the many other things that I, apparently, need to clean out of there, and shuts the lid. “You keep them,” she insists. “I’ve… already read through them. I think you might like them.”

“I shouldn’t be here, should I?” It’s a hard question to ask. I’m not typically one to allow others under my skin. For Lora’s sake, though… I don’t want to screw up the life she lives here.

“Probably not…” It’s less of a suggestion. “Why don’t we head to the market and get what I need for the week? We can hide in my house until you have to go.” From the look in her eyes, I must have something on my face. “My dad’s not home.”

_There it is_. A wave of relief washes over me. I wasn’t looking forward to the thought of facing him again, nor the potential arrest that would follow. I don’t think Lora would be too interested in a friendship with the man that had her father executed for treason. “All right, then. That sounds like a great plan.”

Lora spends a few hours diligently combing through the market stalls for each item on her list. A man offers her his cart to carry the bags both she and I have collected, a gesture that is well received. He suggests it’s brought back before the stalls open tomorrow, and Lora agrees. Each bag is carefully loaded into the wire cart, we press on for eggs and milk, and it’s time to make the journey back to her house.

Unfortunately, there’s just one last thing that needs to be taken care of. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea to leave my bike outside of the shops.”

“Do you want to move it? You… You can ride it back to my house. I have space in the shed where you can lock it up.”

It’s not a bad idea, but if earlier events have anything to say, I still don’t know where her house is. “We can head back that way and I’ll tow the cart. I still don’t have my bearings on this place.”


	5. Command Post

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update was made on 09/26/2019 to include an additional portion of the scene between Striker and Ace once Lora leaves the bridge. This was intended to be included in Chapter 6, however it made more sense in-flow to include it in this chapter. Please re-read through if you haven’t already!

_Ace_

An array of colorful ingredients crowds her kitchen counter. There’s a scent in the air; it’s something I haven’t smelled in ages. Fresh, edible food. Lora’s sitting on the counter with her legs tucked beneath her, peeling a small bundle of tubers. “He shouldn’t be back until next week.”

“Why’s your dad gone so long?” There’s a plate in front of me, and although she’s cooking, it isn’t empty. She’s cut a few carrots for me, a snack I welcome with open arms.

“There isn’t work for him here on Mesa… He works under a mechanic out by Glockenchime three or four weeks at a time. He stays at the Shanty while he’s away, comes home for a week, goes back out…” She tosses the starchy vegetable into a pot of boiling water and starts on the next.

I finish off the last carrot and say goodbye to my orange friends. “What about… What about your mom, or… siblings?” I worry it’s a touchy subject.

She shakes her head. “My mom was a victim of the war. We buried her when I was twelve… It’s been rough without her, but everyone here kind of came together to rebuild when the dust settled.” One in the pot, another in her hands. “We rebuilt the town, got back to work, and then… It’s like the war that brought us all together started to tear us apart. Some of them decided that the Sky Knights were our only hope, others thought they were more trouble than Cyclonia. We really needed Knight presence here when the houses were burning, but… It’s like Mesa was forgotten. Eventually, people agreed it was the Sky Knight’s fault that Mesa burned, and… Well, you’re hiding in my house, so I think the rest speaks for itself.”

“So, you’ve been on your own a while, huh?”

She nods. Her potato pile is depleted, but she remains on the counter. “With Mom gone, dad decided he couldn’t make a living on Mesa. Mom worked with the vendors at the market, so we got a lot of our food cheap. It really helped pay the bills… When she left, so did the discounts. So, he took the skills he learned repairing airships and went to work for a mechanic. I think he ends up doing military repairs, which obviously wouldn’t be his first choice, but it pays. Because it’s so far away, I’m… I’m alone a lot.”

If they buried her mother when she was twelve, Lora had to be old enough to make her own choices. “Why haven’t you just… left? Doesn’t sound like a great life here. You could get a job somewhere and just leave…”

“That’s the problem…” She pushes off the counter and rummages through the bags. “If I want to leave, I need to get my license and a vehicle.” With carrots in her hands, she motions to her environment. The house isn’t in great shape, but it still stands. “It’s not like I can afford either of those things right now. I’m stuck with whatever money my dad gives me.” The carrots are peeled and my plate is full once more. “If I want to leave, I need a way to do it. And that’s just not happening; not right now.”

The carrots are some of the freshest I’ve had since before the academy. “There’s plenty of ferries that stop in Mesa… Why not just hitch a ride? Even a cargo ship will take you if you ask nice enough.”

She’s elbow-deep into another bag and returns with a sachet of rice. “Have you ever just… packed up somewhere and left? You prepared for the Academy—that became your life—so no, I don’t think that counts. I’m talking all your things: your life, your memories, friends… all of it. Pack it up, leave, and start your life somewhere else. Have you ever had to do that?” It’s rhetorical, but it’s obvious I can’t sympathize. “If I leave, this house is empty. Dad would have no reason to live here. Someone would need to sell the house, pack everything up, sell all of that too… It’s not that easy, Ace.”

“What about just… a vacation, or something? Get off the Terra, visit some new places, see what’s out there? You could totally put a plan in place to get away. There’s nothing here.” And I had a point. Mesa, nearby Saharr, shares in its climate. Produce and other crops are flown in from as far as Atmosia, jobs dwindle without Sky Knight presence… It’s not a fruitful environment. It would do everyone here some good to get away and see what they’re missing.

“A vacation would be nice, but…” She sighs. The rice drops into another pot and she covers it with a lid. “You’re missing the point, Ace. My life is here whether I like it or not. There’s nothing out there for me right now, and I don’t have the money to just go somewhere; for a day or a week, it doesn’t matter. The fact that I got out to Neon was by the grace of my good-for-nothing friends who live here in a winter home. I didn’t even get to enjoy the trip until… Well, until you showed up.”

My carrots are gone, again, and I feel bad asking for more. There’s dinner on the range, and I take in the scent. “Would you like to go somewhere?”

“You’re not taking me anywhere,” she laughs. “Don’t think just because you have money that I’m going to let you spend any of it on me.”

“We don’t have to spend anything to go somewhere…” I tip the plate into the sink and settle back onto a chair at the nearby table. “I could… We could go to the Condor. It’s not exactly a Terra, but… You could meet everyone, if you want.”

“That’s a military ship!” she argues. “I’m not allowed on there!”

“Oh, come on… We get visitors all the time.” Not often, I realize, but enough that it’s not uncommon, nor is it forbidden. “They’ve been talking about you for the last month, anyway. Might as well meet them.”

“The last month, huh?” She wipes her hands on her apron and steps away, allowing the food to quietly cook on the stove and in the oven. “You’ve been talking about me for that long?”

I hadn’t, but Joe can pull a rumor out of his ass… “I don’t think they’d mind if I brought you over there, actually. I’m sure it’d be good for them to see why I’ve left the ship instead of Striker wondering if I’m serious about my job or not.”

She nods, wandering around the kitchen in thought. “So, this whole leaving the ship thing is normal for you? Hm…”

“How long will everything be cooking?” I ask, stepping away from the table. It already smells so good…

She peeks through the glass lids. “Could be a few hours.” Though there isn’t a clock in the house, it’s at least mid-afternoon. “We have some time; I can let everything cook down for a bit. How long will it take to get to the ship?”

“Probably just under an hour. We were passing through when I left, they’re probably closer now than earlier.” I gather a few of the dirty utensils and set them in the sink.

As the water begins running, she pushes me out of the way. Her hands go to work before I can argue. “I guess it’s not a terrible idea. Can’t say I know many people that can say they’ve met a squadron leader.” Lora shuts off the water and dries her hand on her apron before removing it. “Want to go get your bike sorted while I finish up?”

I want to radio ahead, but there’s a pit in my stomach that begs otherwise. Knowing Joe, or even Leeum, there’s a huge possibility they’ll toss something together and embarrass me. That’s the last thing I want. Instead, I stash my radio receiver under my seat, throw on the jacket, and the engine roars to life.

Not long after, Lora locks up and steps over to the shed. She pulls her jacket close and tucks her hands into the crooks of her arms. “It really is a nice bike…”

I lean over the side and inspect the earlier damage. “Yeah… Leeum’s not gonna be happy about that, but… It’s not bad. Much better than the training bikes back at the Academy.”

She plans her attack on the bike and eventually climbs on behind me. “Is this the first bike you’ve owned?”

“Owned?” Gently, I shift from side to side and kick it into gear. “I mean, it’s a loose term… Technically it’s owned by the Storm Hawks. It’s not a combat vehicle, though… But it’s mine while I’m there.”

“While you’re there?” Her arms find their place, and somehow, it feels right.

It begs discussion. I shake myself from the thought and return to the question at hand. “I’m… I’m still deciding, I guess…”

The flight out is shorter than expected—thirty minutes, tops. The Condor made quite the journey since I’d left, and I could actually see the ship from the Mesa docks. The bay door slides open as my tires hit the landing strip, and it’s apparent my arrival was caught before I even landed. I’m already dreading the conversation ahead.

“This… is the Condor?” Lora stretches her legs along the landing strip. She’s holding the bun atop her head and her eyes are wide. “Massive… Never seen a carrier ship up close.”

“Wanna see the inside?” I motion toward the large bay door, and curiosity pulls her past the lineup of Skimmers and into the helm. “Striker?! Joe?” I call out, searching for my comrades. Even Maara, never far from his controls, was absent from the bridge. “Where is everyone?”

A call comes over the radio and the speakers flood with a familiar voice. “Heard you land, boy! Kale and I are down in the cargo hold doing inventory checks,” Striker announces. “We’ll be up in a few.”

“You got it, boss…” Lora’s deep in her investigation of the ship, and I return to the landing strip to secure my Skimmer. With the bay door shut, I strap down the bike in line with the others, dust off my hands, and return to the wandering girl. Unfortunately, it appears someone else has already found her.

Joe may think he’s slick, but his exterior is slimy and his words are clumsy at best. The man, no older than twenty-five, has his work cut out for him with the ladies. Unfortunately for him, Lora is neither his type nor interested in what he has to say. Her signature—the arms crossed, a crooked grin. She’s nodding at everything he says, but it’s in one ear and out the other. I can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah… Last week, we stopped off on Tropica—” Nope. “—and rented a few boards. Massive waves, Lora. Just massive.”

“Are you high?” My hand thumps against his shoulder and Joe’s out of his skin. “We weren’t on Tropica, we went to Tranqua. No waves on Tranqua, bro. We barely made it five feet through the trees before you ran screaming for the Condor.”

Lora’s in hysterics. “Are you serious?”

“Yep. Not sure why Joe’d be afraid of one of the most peaceful Terras in Atmos…” I brush my neck with my hand and shake my head at Joe. “Couldn’t be more chicken shit if the guy was a Merb.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!” We’re grasping at straws, here. “There’s gotta be something in those trees! No Terra can be marketed as the safest place in the world without some deadly secret hiding in there… Gives me the creeps, man.”

As Joe wanders off, Lora begins to collect herself. “So do you, man… So do you…”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just a misguided teenager.”

Her eyes roll in response. “The second I let slip I’m apparently an adult, the dude is all over me… Normal? I’m gonna guess that’s normal.”

It’s a resounding yes. “It’s something you get used to. You stop believing his stories; you just kind of nod and smile and let him have his fun. I can’t tell if it’s worse to be a girl in his presence, or one of the guys sleeping less than a hundred feet from him for months on-end.”

“Ace! Back so soon?” Kale calls. Striker isn’t far behind. “I thought we wouldn’t see you until tomorrow, at the earliest…”

“Pit stop, actually.”

Kale extends a hand to Lora—this time, she’s met with a genuine welcome. “Kale Barrash.”

“Lora Meiger. You must be Lightning.” Her eyes are beaming, but she remains collected. “It’s really an honor to meet you.”

It’s a moment before Striker is able to take in the situation, but he smiles warmly. “It’s an honor to hear that from a Mesan. Lora, is it?”

“Yes sir. So, this is the infamous leader of the Storm Hawks, eh?”

“Infamous is a strong word…” Striker, though a disciplined leader, has managed to remain humble through the years. Always makes me wonder what kind of person his son will grow up to be. “Welcome to the Condor. How long are you guys here for?”

Lora looks to me for an answer, but I simply shrug. “I thought it’d be nice to give her the tour, meet you guys… I don’t know. I really don’t have a plan, here.”

Kale chuckles. “Are you guys hungry? I could cook up something real quick.”

Immediately, I rush to save the situation. “Actually, w—”

“I don’t want to insult you, but… I don’t have much access to writings of your history…” What? “How did you come to join the Storm Hawks? Wasn’t your Terra targeted by Cyclonia propaganda?”

Striker catches my eye and nods his head in Lora’s direction. “History buff, eh? Why don’t we all take a seat and you can ask us whatever you’d like?”

“O-oh, uh…” She’s embarrassed. Lora takes a short step backward and looks away. “I mean, that’d be great, but I’m sure you guys have better things to do.”

“Where’s Maara, anyway?” Still absent from the controls; he couldn’t have ventured far.

Striker moves us along toward the table on the bridge and pulls out a chair for Lora. “Let me call the others. It’s been a slow day for us, I’m sure they’ll be glad to join in and meet you.”

Her eyes follow his trail as he steps out of the room. Kale takes his seat beside me, silently watching. It’s not his style to jump into conversation with just anyone—I’m shocked he introduced himself so openly.

After a small disturbance in the belly of the ship, the team slowly gathers around and takes a chair. Leeum is bright-eyed as always, Joe kicks his feet onto the table, Maara avoids the group and fills the empty pilot’s chair, Cherie immediately fills the seat beside Lora, and Striker stands at the head. He addresses the group as a whole, “Ace has brought a guest! Her name is Lora, and it sounds like she has a few questions for us. Let’s try to make her feel welcome, aye?”

Kale nods in silence, and Leeum takes it all in. His questions are internalized—he begins to find his own answers. Cherie can’t keep her eyes off Lora, who’s shriveling into nothing with each passing second.

“C-can we just…” I’m lost for words. Lora’s beyond uncomfortable. “What’d I miss? How’s everything?”

Striker shrugs and plants his hands on the back of a chair. His smirk says it all. This is the consequence of not radioing ahead, and I’m paying for it.

“You guys are assholes.”

Lora’s shocked. “I-is this normal?” she asks, pointing at me. “Is he always like this?”

Another shrug from Striker. “He’s learning.”

“Rude!” she seethes. “I’m uh… I’m Lora. I guess it’s nice to meet everyone.”

“So, you’re from Mesa?” Cherie picks at the loose curls in Lora’s bun. “Is brunette your natural color? What color did your mother have? Were you born there? How long have you lived there?”

“Uh… Hi. Cherie?” I pat the table and wave at her. “Probably one question at a time would be good.”

Lora’s a champ. “Uh… Yes, yes, the same… Yes… Eighteen years? Does that work?”

Cherie nods. The information has been received, and she’s processing it on her mental clipboard. An opportunity for knowledge is never forsaken. “Do you enjoy it there?”

“I guess? It’s… It’s Mesa… I can’t walk from one end of the Terra to the other in a day, so… I guess there’s that… Places I’ve never been to on my own Terra…”

She nods again, and her fingers latch onto the curls once more.

Leeum’s next. “Have you travelled far?”

Lora pauses in thought. “I… I think the farthest I’ve ever gone was a trip to Atmosia when I was super young. Dad flew Mom and I out for a ceremony way back when. I barely remember it.” She reaches for her bun and gently removes Cherie’s fingers. “Might’ve been ten, fifteen years ago…”

“We’re on our way out to Ray,” Kale tells her. “Should pass by Atmosia on our way through, actually.”

“Oooh! I’ve heard it’s a beautiful place… Must be the perfect climate for all different kinds of crops.”

Striker nods. “Aerrow and I spent some time there teaching him how to operate a Skimmer. Little guy, so I propped him up on the tank and held his hands, but it was a blast.”

“Is that your son?”

He nods. “Little prodigal son. He’ll be on this ship before long.”

Lora smiles at the idea. “How old is he now?”

“Just turned eight.” His pride is showing. “The missus wants to enroll him in the Academy next year—he’ll graduate by the time he’s fourteen and will follow in my footsteps before long.”

My temper always has the worst timing. “Is that what he wants, or what you want?”

“Careful, Ace,” Cherie breathes.

“Watch it,” Striker warns me. It’s quick, but the message is well received. “My hope is that he enjoys it here. I’d love nothing more than for him to take my place when I retire.”

“Which we hope is never,” Joe laughs. “You’re, what, sixty now?” Give or take thirty years. “You’ve still got a few good years left.”

“Very funny, Joe.”

Leeum steps away from the table, and while it appears like an escape, he moves with purpose. “I’m going to cook something up. I’ll be back later.”

Lora’s eyes wander to the wingman. “C-can I follow him? I want to see more of the ship…”

Striker nods with a smile, excusing her from the table with a wave. Though she’s gone from the room, it appears discussions haven’t quite ended. I can see it in his eyes—I’m in for it, now. He’s not twisting with anger, but there’s a fire beneath him that I’m desperate to extinguish.

Joe plops his feet onto the floor and props his elbows onto the table. “Gotta say, Acey-boy, I’m a little surprised that she’s real.”

“Whatever scenario you’ve built up in your head doesn’t exist,” I explain. “I made a promise to her, I’m fulfilling the promise. End of story.”

Striker shakes his head at me. “No.”

“No, what?” I complain. “No, she can’t be here? No, I can’t go back to Mesa? No, Joe, you’re a fucking idiot?”

“I concede!” Joe laughs. “She’s real, you’re not a liar, and she doesn’t look half bad. Good catch, Ace!”

“She’s smart,” Striker muses. “I’m sure she already sees your pitfalls…”

“Are we seriously debating this right now? This isn’t even a discussion.”

Cherie frowns. “I like her. Can I have her?”

Striker reaches to his right and spins her chair away from the table. “You’re right. This isn’t a discussion at all, Ace. I’m calling it right now—this is going to happen, and my answer is no.”

“How do you know?” I bite back. “Are you taking lessons from Joe, or something?”

“I know because she’s just like L’ucienne… and you’re just like me.” Striker has a bad way with L’ucienne. The two of them were inseparable during his time at the Academy, and fresh out of his graduation, the two were married. Eighteen years strong. “I already feel like I’m managing a circus up here. I won’t be the person allowing you to continue to shirk your duties just because your girl’s on Mesa. There’s regularly six months, a year, we’re up here. If you’re involved with her, missing her—doesn’t matter—you’re going to be distracted. It’s already going to be a battle to get you properly outfitted and trained, knighted… No.”

I frown at him. “I don’t think you have a place in this argument, Striker.”

Cherie wanders from her chair. “I’m gonna go check on our guest… Joe, Kale… You should probably come with.” She tows the pair off by their ears. “You two place nice, please.”

Though I often reap the consequences of Striker’s disappointment, there’s something different about this one. His eyes gloss over and the color drains from his face. “I can stop you, and I will. My answer is no. You have way too much invested in the Academy, in the Storm Hawks, in this life for you to throw it all away for a girl.”

This is becoming ridiculous. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“But you’re already invested in her, too, aren’t you?” he insists. “Do you really want to throw all that hard work away for her?”

“You’re one to talk, Lightning.”

His chest rumbles as a low growl escapes. “And yet, today you’re speaking with the leader of the top squadron in Atmos.” He circles the table, pushing each chair in as he goes. A hand thumps on my shoulder, and the muscle numbs with his grip. “A girl doesn’t have to be the end-all of a career, but damn it if it isn’t easy to stay focused. Trust me, Ace, this isn’t the road you want to go down. Not now, at least. End of discussion, boy. I suggest you let the girl finish her tour, take her home, and come back to the Condor.”

“You gave me two days,” I argue. “Two days.”

“Circumstances change.”

While aboard the ship, I take the opportunity to change into less conspicuous clothing. While Striker might have it out for me now, I won’t be squandering the two days he’s allowed me to spend on Mesa. I fully intend to reap the two days he’s allowed, even if they’ve been rescinded. While I’m not entirely interested in spending them on the Terra, knowing now that I’m not accepted by its inhabitants, I feel it’s smart to dress in civilian clothing. I thought I could get away with it, too. Guess not.

My room’s a mess—it always is. There’s clothing scattered and piled around, notepads from school and subsequently on-board training, and a few bundles of trash. It’s beginning to look like Joe’s room. I’ll clean it when I get back… I peel off my shirt and begin the hunt for clean clothes.

There’s a knock on the door, but they don’t wait for an invitation. “I-I’m sorry, I…” Lora’s already backing out of the room.

I find myself laughing at her. “It’s just a shirt,” I complain. “You can leave if you want. I don’t care.”

She’s staring, and a decision has been made. “What’s up? Striker said you wandered off… Thought I might find you in here.”

I unfold a few shirts and press them to my face. It’s about time I did laundry… Filthy. “Yeah, he’s, uh… How’d the tour go?”

Lora shuts the door behind her and takes a seat on my uncomfortable mattress. She pushes a few things out of her way and scans the room. “Not very much of a tour. Striker and Kale went somewhere and I’m trying to avoid Joe… Cherie’s nice.”

“She’s also just as slimy as Joe,” I admit. “But she’s a bit more clever and twice as slick.”

She hides her grin behind her hair. “You’ve got a neat little family up here. You all live on the ship? Every day?” She’s watching me again, and I quickly become aware of the scars on my back.

Finally, I manage to find a shirt worthy of another day before washing. I tug it over my head and smooth it down. “Yep. Home away from home. Don’t get any bright ideas,” I warn her. “This place sucks.”

“Sucks?” She’s take aback by my words. “The ship is beautiful… I’d kill for the chance to stay here.”

“The novelty is gone after the first week. Then you really start hearing Joe snoring and realize that Kale and Leeum are night owls. Good luck getting any sleep up here…” Pants are good, socks are good… I sweep the room, grab an old hoodie, and meet Lora’s gaze. “Ready to head out?”

“Already? I feel like we just got here.”

We did… “I’ve already worn out my welcome.” I reach for her hand and lead her from the room. “We should probably go somewhere else.”

We step through the helm and Maara makes a point to ignoring our existence. Out of the six other aboard the ship, Maara and Cherie are two I can easily appreciate. They stay out of my way, I stay out of theirs; it’s acceptable.

Lora tugs on my hand. “Hey… I read through a few of the maps you guys have—really cool, by the way! Could we go to the bazaar?”

I unlock the door to the bay and watch her as it rises. “You want to go to Saharr? That’s unusual…” Sahara’s climate is unforgiving. The bazaar held there, alongside an annual festival, is an interesting activity, but Saharr, itself… “Wouldn’t you rather go somewhere less hot?”

She frowns. “I’ve never been to the bazaar… I thought it’d be cool.”

I release the straps on the bike and push it toward the landing strip. “If you want… It’s not far…”

Lora kicks at the rear tire while I check the Fuel crystals in the tank. “I think we should. I think it’ll be fun.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update was made on 09/26/2019 to Chapter 5 to include an additional portion of the scene between Striker and Ace once Lora leaves the bridge, which precedes this chapter. While it’s not necessary to read, it was meant to be included in Chapter 6. Please re-read through if you haven’t already!

_Ace_

The ride back to Mesa is no more eventful than the flight out. We land in record time, and it seems Lora’s growing more confident with each takeoff. With the bike covertly stowed away in her toolshed, Lora’s back to work on dinner and I find myself snooping through her house.

It’s not much of a house, but there’s plenty of space. The way Mesans design their homes is fairly different than those on Atmosia. I’m used to metal beams and sheeting, while her home is built of wood and copper. From the outside, while rundown, the copper accents beautifully highlight their history. I wish the style could be brought to Atmosia, but there isn’t enough insulation to protect from the cold. Hm…

Her father’s room is vacant. There’s a bed, but the sheets are tightly folded against the mattress and the pillows are undisturbed. There’s dust on a nearby Blaster lockbox, and the en-suite bathroom appears forgotten. The closet is empty except for a lone blazer, five sizes smaller than the man I met a few months ago. The room is depressing, and I leave as the feeling washes over me.

Lora’s room looks well lived-in. Her blankets are crumpled over the mattress, a basket with clothes spills onto the floor, and a lone teddy bear is slumped against her pillows. It’s a humble little room.

There’s a third room, and the door is shut. My hand lingers on the knob as I decide just how far is _too far_. The handle spins, but the door is jammed. As second thoughts trickle in, I bump the wood with my shoulder and it gives way. Inside is a room less lived than even her father’s. A cloud of dust wafts over as I slink inside.

Directly ahead is a desk with various tools, a few pens and pencils, and an open notebook. To my left sits a slew of shelves; on each, plants long-since dead. Some are labeled, others are too far gone to tell. Pictures of a young Lora and, surprisingly, her father, are hung along the walls. A large bay window to the outside world illuminates the workspace, and the deep sill is padded for lazy afternoon lounging. Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear anyone’s been able to enjoy it for years.

I’m careful not to touch anything, but I feel a need to investigate. The notebook on the desk has careful cursive writing.

  
_The Jaspers are in bloom. They’re a week early this season. I will_  
_need to prune them next week before the roses come in._

_I need to order seeds for next spring before they stop making deliveries._

  
The final entry is a solemn reminder of the war. Lora and I experienced the full-effects of the war when we were twelve—not quite old enough to understand the stress, but we knew something was wrong. I vividly remember the day the Atmos won, and we buried many of our own. I remember arguing with many of my friends. Some wanted to join the Academy and make Cyclonia, the Talons, pay for what they did. Others wanted to join what was left of the Talon troops. I lost a lot of friends that day, and not just due to the death tolls.

Well-hidden behind a bundle of clay pots, I spot a ribbon bow. Much like everything else in the room, it’s covered in a thick layer of dust. Beneath the bow sits a neatly wrapped box. I’m immediately uncomfortable.

“What are you doing in here?” She doesn’t sound happy.

Mid-lurch, I manage to tip over one of the clay pots; it happens to be the only one within reach that’s filled with soil. Before too much damage is done, I catch the pot. Bits of soil clumps tip into the palm of my hand. “Sorry… I tried not to come in here…”

“How’d that work out for you?” She _definitely_ isn’t pleased.

I wipe my hands on my shirt and stare blankly around the room, planning my escape. She stands between me and the door. “Apparently, not at all. Hm.”

“Find anything interesting?”

I frown. “…No? I’m sorry, let me just… leave…” I press myself between her and the door jamb. If ‘uncomfortable’ could be described, you’d find me next to it in the dictionary. _Idiot._

Lora fiddles with the lock on the inside of the door and it clicks shut. “We… don’t go in there anymore.” I don’t even have to ask why. “I don’t mean to interrupt your snooping… Just thought you’d stay away from the closed doors.” Lora’s hands press to my spine and I’m pushed back through the hallway and into the living room. “Dinner’s ready… Are you hungry?”

_Well… not anymore._ “Yeah, that sounds great right now.”

Her smile returns, and there’s a small bounce in her step as she wanders toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab a plate. Wash your hands!”

“Yes, Mother…”

A colorful plate is set before me, and my eyes may be hungrier than my stomach. Even the day after we pick up supplies, I’m hard-pressed to find a meal like this on board the Condor. I’m nowhere near a chef and, well… my team can’t cook, either. Kale is on another planet—he somehow takes fresh ingredients and makes literal poison. I don’t know how he can stomach it.

The food is gone without much chatter; I’m too focused on eating. By the time not only my plate, but also the table has been cleared, I’m uncomfortably full and Lora is laughing at me. “There’s such a thing as leftovers, you know.”

“Have you seen the inside of our fridge? If I’m lucky, I get to eat rations which aren’t that great. I’ll shoot myself before I eat Kale’s cooking.”

“Why not make your own food?”

“I barely know how to fry up an egg!” There’s a reason I hunt for carrots or other snacks. “Ingredients are hard to come by. Most of the good stuff is gone in the first week; after that, I could bend a carrot in half without breaking it.”

Lora scoops up our plates and utensils. “Seems like every time you open your mouth, life on the Condor gets more interesting.”

“Would probably be a lot less interesting if Joe wasn’t there.” I follow her into the kitchen, and it looks like a bomb has gone off. Though I can’t be sure, it appears every pot, pan, and dish in the house has been used while cooking a simple meal. “…Do you want help cleaning?”

She looks around and laughs, mostly at herself. “N-no… This is normal.” She slinks into the depths of her kitchen and hides from judgement. “I don’t pay attention when I cook. If I need a new bowl, I grab one… It’s messy, but you liked the food, right?”

“Definitely.” No arguments, here. Can’t say I’d enjoy the clean-up, though. I grab what I can while she’s not looking and toss it into the skin. If I’m quick enough, I can have a single pan washed before she kicks me out.

Lora snaps on a pair of long gloves and wanders over to the sink. She looks frustrated, but makes no motions to stop me. I begin work on a second pot as she stares. “Do… do you mind if we just… talk?”

“What about?”

Her tone of voice has me curious—there’s a hint of sadness with a side of curiosity. “I’d, uh… I’d like to get to know you.” She stumbles over her words. I can feel Striker breathing down my neck. “We’ve talked a bit already, but… I don’t know. I’m curious about you.”

The water is roaring. If she wants to talk, this isn’t the time… “That’s fine. Can I clean up first?”

The rubber gloves roll from her elbows and off of her wrists. She nods in silent agreement and wanders out of the kitchen, leaving the mess to me. The aftermath of her cooking laughs in my face.

Surprisingly, all the splatters, spills, and crumbs don’t take terribly long to clean up. Obligation for the delicious meal leaves my hands wrinkled and pruned, but proud. I toss the last dish rag into the mud room and turn off the lights. There’s a smile on my face, and I’m too tired to wipe it away.

I find Lora curled up on the sofa with a pillow pressed to her chest. A film reel clicks and whirs from the center of the room, projecting long-lost memories onto the wall. “This is the last reel my dad brought home,” she reminisces. “It’s, maybe… ten years old, I think. This is the inaugural address.”

I stare at the wall, and a familiar face appears. Striker—young, but unmistakable. He’s shaking the hands of officials, and those that appear to be his new teammates. Cherie, Leeum, Kale, Maara. Joe is nowhere to be found, but the guy hadn’t yet graduated the Academy when the Storm Hawks were inducted. It’s truly a looking glass into the past. Striker’s mouth is moving, and I can’t hear anything but the gears of the projector.

She watches me as the empty seat beside her is filled. “Have you seen this before?”

A sigh—I have. We were afforded many lectures with many a news reel in the Academy. With their prestige, Storm Hawks, their history, and informative lectures were made often. There isn’t much I don’t know about them that hasn’t been written in history books. Things kept behind closed doors, however, I am hard-pressed to learn; though I know plenty of secrets exist.

The end of the reel collects with the other frames, and the white light is all that remains. Lora goes to collect the reel and replace it among a small handful of others her family has amassed. “This is pretty much all I know of the outside world. If I can’t buy it from Ms. Jenkan… I’m clueless.” She takes a seat beside me once more, and her eyes grow wide.

“…What?” I question. Her stare creates an air of awkwardness. I suddenly want to run.

“Tell me about it,” she mutters. “I… can’t get very many history books anymore. What’s your life actually like?”

Apparently, taking her to the ship wasn’t enough. “What do you want to know?”

She’s deep in thought, and then it hits her. “What made you go into the Academy?”

This is more story than I want to tell, and I’m sure the details would be too much for her. And yet, somehow, the words begin to pour out of me. “My dad,” I quickly admit. “He decided… If I was going to be a ‘_delinquent_,’ I was going to do it for the government.” She’s horrified. I want to stop. “He dropped me off at the Academy when I was fourteen.”

“That’s terrible!” Her eyes are welling up; she covers her mouth with a throw pillow.

I frown—it’s the second, maybe third time that I’ve seen those tears in her eyes and the gut-wrenching feeling returns. “He didn’t come back for me.” It’s a bitter story with bitter feelings and my words are sour. “It wasn’t a choice,” I admit, “—but I’ve stuck it out.”

“Is it still his choice?”

That one’s still up for debate. “The Academy has taught me a lot of things. I don’t want to take it for granted.” At times, I feel like the Academy is listening in on everything I say. There have been moments where I’ve disparaged the name, or complained to my team, and karma bites me in the ass. I’m not one to keep my mouth shut, but the gun to my head wishes I’d keep quiet. “I’m… still technically in my final year of the Academy. If I perform well, according to Striker, I’m eligible for Knighthood. Striker signs the papers, and if he decides he still wants me, the job is mine.”

It’s food for thought, and something she appears to be chewing on. “So… Four years at the Academy, you graduate… You take an internship with Lightning, they like you, and you get the job?”

“That’s a good way to put it, I guess.”

“Kind of shitty, though… Your dad put you through this. You could have done anything you wanted, anything in the world, and now you’ve wasted your school years at the Academy. Is it something you _actually_ want to do?”

“…I… I have six months to figure that out.”

“Why not now?”

She has a valid point. “It’s complicated,” I tell her, side-stepping the argument. “There’s more that goes into the job than… than textbooks lead on. I could literally—right now—go back to the ship and hand you all of my school books. You could spend a year reading through them and know everything the Council wants you to know about becoming a soldier. There are a lot—I mean _a lot_—of kids that don’t pass. They’re kicked out in year one. There are kids that can’t grasp the concepts. They’re out in year two or three. Then there’s year-fours. And year-fives. There are kids en-mass picked up by the Rex Guardians who will never be prepared for the kinds of things you get to see up there.

“It’s not pretty. I’ve gone out to calls for murder, suicide, riots… The Talons are gone, but it’s not exactly peaceful out there. We make deliveries; we do stupid shit when it’s slow. It affords the Council a larger budget, I guess. There are days, weeks, where we do nothing at all. We fill out arbitrary check lists, make scheduled stops to have inspections… But there are calls we get that… They’re not for everyone.”

“What about you?” she breathes. “Are you one of them?”

“Can I handle it?” I question, clarifying. “It’s sad. I’ve seen the aftermath of what happens when a guy puts a Blaster to his skull. You know, the kind of call where, when you get there, you’re not sure if you’re even going to be able to identify the dude.” Lora frowns at me, and my heart skips a beat. I need to find my filter, and quick. “It’s not an easy job, but I haven’t seen anything I can’t handle. Not yet, at least.”

“But… But is it… Is it what you _want_ to do?”

“What else is there?” I ask, though I know there are plenty of options. “Who wants to take on a kid with anger issues? I’m not the nicest of people.”

She laughs at me. “Oh, I know, _princess_.” It’s a chilling reminder.

I take the opportunity to change subjects and run with it. “Well, now you know about my childhood and my job. What else do you want to know?”


End file.
